


Clipped

by Cherub_Heart



Series: Together to be Apart, Who Falls First? [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Dadza, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Ghost Wilbur Soot, Mutilation, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Phil Watson is tired, Physical Abuse, Villain!Dream, Violence, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged!Dream, Winged!Phil Watson, Winged!Technoblade, Winged!Tommyinnit, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherub_Heart/pseuds/Cherub_Heart
Summary: Tommy's wings hadn't grown in yet when he was forced into exile on some freezing mountain. An inkling of hope made him think that maybe, just maybe, Dream would have some sympathy and leave his wings to molt and grow.Hope doesn't get you far as you freeze to death in the tundra. At least he gets a little bit of help.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Phil Watson, Clay | Dream & Technoblade, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Phil Watson & TommyInnit, Technoblade & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Together to be Apart, Who Falls First? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184888
Comments: 37
Kudos: 351





	1. Oh, How They Hold You

**Author's Note:**

> this was a pain to write but I'm really happy with it, enjoy :D

_“You know Tommy, this doesn’t have to be painful. I just need you to hold still for me.”_

That's how it started, the first words said to him as they arrived at the mountain top. There wasn’t much space, a small alcove to shield from a downpour, some trees a little way down the cliff, and a foggy view of the bay. It was going to be a hellish trip up and down the mountainside, especially with Tommy’s bound wings.

Tommy didn’t quite understand why Dream had bound his wings with obsidian shackles, the man had already threatened death if Tommy set foot in the mainland, so why couldn’t he fly?

Tommy thought he’d at least be able to use his adult wings seeing as how he’s got one or so more molts until they’d come out. Maybe he’d even be able to practice flying out here so he could surprise Tubbo when they finally see each other again.

Wistful thinking. Just a teenager hoping to see home.

It hurt when Dream clipped his wings.

\---

The campfire he set up just outside his cabin barely warmed him, damaged wings clutched painfully close to his body, attempting to conserve any heat possible. His brothers’ ghost disappeared last night, probably to visit L’manburg and grab more of his weird blue crystals (Tommy didn’t understand much about them so he never bothered to ask). The snow piled at the edge as it continued to fall, an uncomfortably frigid breeze threatening to blow out the little flame.

His body is numb. He hadn’t noticed until now, as his hands shook so violently they seemed possessed and his legs barely moved as he tried to stretch. Maybe he should’ve tried to hide some of his clothes instead of burning them as Dream asked.

Like Dream… asked… When had Tommy ever started listening to what Dream asked? Well, probably when Dream clipped his first adult feathers too close to his flesh and cauterized the blood with his flaming sword. Tommy’s sure Dream hadn’t meant it, even though he’d said Tommy deserved it after he decided to try his luck in asking for some memorabilia from L’manburg.

Maybe Tommy did deserve to get hurt.

Tommy didn’t feel as his body slumped to the floor, cold and on the brink of death.

Tommy didn't feel the little fire swoosh out as an aggressive gust of wind blew past.

Tommy didn’t feel the odd, warm gush of wind that followed blow over him from the mountain’s mouth.

Tommy didn’t feel the hands rushing to pick him up, he didn’t feel the warm embrace of someone who was unmistakably not Dream. (Dream never touched Tommy, unless it was to pluck one of his feathers or to steer him around. Neither was painless.)

Tommy didn’t feel a lot of things lately.

Maybe he should be worried.

\---

When Phil was flying away from Techno’s home, he was only planning on seeing one of his sons. He was only planning on a short, simple trip to visit him. He brought some pastries, maybe a bit more than necessary, but he knew how much his kids loved them and wasn’t going to pass on an opportunity to surprise at least one of them while he still can.

He didn’t plan on seeing his youngest son, hidden away in some frozen mountain, pale as ice and just as cold, passed out and surrounded by old and new molted feathers.

And some feathers that were clipped.

And some that didn’t look ready to molt.

And some blood feathers, none attached to Tommy’s wings.

Some looked burnt, singed, cauterized.

Tommy’s wings.

_His wings._

Phil felt the world stop as he looked upon the mangled sight of feathers. Whatever he’d eaten earlier threatened to come back up as he saw the horrendous sight of his son’s clipped wings. His poor, sixteen-year-old’s wings, unkept and too short, blood camouflaging with the tint of his crimson feathers. His poor son, far too thin and far too shaky on the cold stone floor, clothes far too dirty and far too torn.

He missed his son’s adult wings growing out.

He missed his son growing.

He missed his son.

He’s never been so light.

The nearby cabin was uncomfortably barren, the room empty and unkempt. The red sheets of the bed against the far wall a mess, haphazardly thrown onto the floor, an abandoned cobble fireplace sitting unused. Molted feathers litter the planks on the ground, mostly brushed into the nearest corner of the room, barely any were intact.

Phil spares a glance down at Tommy, heart wrecked at his shaking form as he pulls his son closer to his chest, dark wings curling around them. He glances around, trying to find any kind of tinder or flint to ignite the empty fireplace, only finding nothing. His pack had some spare planks in case of an emergency, and this certainly seemed to fit that criterion.

Laying Tommy down on his bed and pulling the sheet up around his body, he takes off his woolen coat, draping it over the teen as well. He pulls his pack off, fishing out the planks, and throws them into the fireplace, working as fast as he can to get a fire started.

It takes him just a bit longer than he'd like (His hands wouldn't stop shaking, anxiety creeping up his throat from his gut at the thought of his youngest going into hypothermic shock). When the fire finally stabilizes, Phil rushes to Tommy, picking him up as gently as possible before sitting in front of the flames, resting Tommy against his lap. His wings flaring up to keep most of the heat between them and the fire.

He finds his fingers pushing up Tommy's hair from his face, twitching at the feeling of the grime that's smudged across his son's face. As he looks at Tommy's face, recognition begins to set in.

Eyebags too dark for a teen are the only color clear on his face. His cheeks thin and malnourished, scratched and damaged. There's suspicious burn-looking scarring down his nape and neck. Phil’s stomach churned at the sight, his chest tightening the longer he stares.

What was he thinking? Why would he leave his youngest alone? Why didn’t he go searching for him the minute he found out he was exiled?

What was he doing?

The shaking body in his arms stirred before stiffening.

Phil's voice catches in his throat before whispering out a soft, "Tommy?" as Phil turns Tommy a bit to see him better.

He's never seen his youngest son so afraid, so hollow.

Eyes, once the brightest and iciest blue he's ever seen, now as dull and grey as the stone surrounding the cabin. So, so dull; no longer blue. His breathing was uncomfortably uneven as if he was about to pass out again. He was panicking.

"Tommy-Tommy listen to me, listen to Phil. " He loosens his grip on his son, giving him space between his wings, "I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just breathe with me, follow me." As he inhales, he watches as Tommy staggers a breath in after processing Phil's voice and words.

A slow breath out. A quick breath follows.

A slow breath in, a hiccuping breath follows.

Repeat. Repeat.

Repeat. Repeat.

After some agonizingly long minutes, Tommy's breathing finally matches Phil's, and soon enough the teen finds himself buried in his father's arms. White-knuckled grasps his clothes as sobs rip themselves from the teen.

Tommy's only ever cried once before in front of Phil, and that was when all his emotions built and built and built before Phil finally noticed and his emotional barrier crumbled. That was years ago, and it's been building ever since.

Phil could only hold and comfort him, just like he did before, waiting for his son to quiet so he can know why his youngest nearly froze to death all alone on a depressing mountain.

\---

Tommy nestled into his dad's side, attempting to make himself as small as possible as one of Phil's massive wings wrapped behind him. Just enough of his head showed for Phil to run his fingers through as Tommy whispered what happened to him, what Dream's been telling him, what Dream's been doing, what he did to Tommy's wings.

When Tommy choked on the topic of his wings, Phil felt a hand glide against his soft and smoothed feathers, well-groomed and cleaned. Phil glanced at the dull grey and crimson feathers that piled in the corner of the room.

A burning white rage roared alive in his chest as Tommy told him about how Dream clipped his wings every visit, not even bothering to bring shears and opting to use a sword. How he's been dealing with the near every day visits from Dream in the past couple of months, how he's been forced to burn and destroy his items at Dream's command. The horrific details Tommy lists off as he describes the feeling of his baby feathers being plucked just for entertainment's sake.

Phil can hardly believe his Tommy has been surviving like this.

His Tommy, able to recite every prick and pull of pinions being plucked from flesh.

His Tommy, dull and tired, unlike the old Tommy he knew.

His Tommy, craving the feeling of safety for once in the past couple of years.

His Tommy, starved for contact that didn't end in violence.

He's been gone for too long. His foolish little forgetfulness has cost his child's freedom; his child's hope and life. The seething hatred boiling just under his skin is no apology for his absence. He's already failed one son, he refuses to fail another. Not while he's still around will he let another one of his kids fall off the deep end.

The sound of boots hitting stone echoes in Phil's ears. The sudden rigid body curled into his side shudders at the sound and looks up. Fear etches into Tommy's face as a sudden, horrific realization dawns on him.

"You can't be here," and the cabin door swings open, a frozen eruption of wind blasting into the room as an armor-clad man enters, wool lining a green hood pulled up beside a smiling birch mask, his maple-colored wings pulled tight against his back.

He freezes as he looks at Phil.

Phil nearly erupts at the sight of him, but to prevent any further trauma on his child, he says a quick "Give me a moment," as he stands up. Tommy pushes himself as far away from Dream as he can, what little feathers he has quivering at the sight of him and the breeze.

"Dream. May I talk to you? Outside." It was less of a question and more of a command. Too reminiscent of a commander rather than a civilian, anger flickering in every word.

"Oh, uh- y- yeah, sure." Despite the confidence he was attempting to air, his voice failed him. He waits a moment for Phil to leave first, but when the older man doesn't budge from his spot, Dream shuffles out. Phil spares a small glance at Tommy before leaving. Tommy, who's starring, wide-eyed and scared; so, so scared.

When Phil closes the door behind him and turns back to Dream, his eyes narrow on the other's sword, noticeably enchanted as it glows, a fiery orange hue illuminating from the blade. Rage pricks at his skull as bitter silence weighs down the air. Dream shifts only to immediately straighten as Phil's voice cuts like daggers through whatever tension was building.

"What have you done to Tommy."

Dream stutters for an answer and Phil repeats, shoulders hunching as his hands ball into fists. His stormy wings shift, flaring out slightly.

"What have you done," Phil takes a step forward, Dream takes a step back, poison flicks in every word, "to my son."

"Your son got what he deserved for damaging the king's property!" Dream attempted to argue, arms flying up into a shrug.

Phil's dawning glare sharpens and Dream recoils as the blond's wings puff out aggressively, feathers erupting in full as they graze against the ceiling of the cave. Dream nearly misses Phil pulling out his netherite sword, the shimmering hue of it a blatant threat.

"What my son did is nothing compared to what you've done to him." Neither looks down at the mangled mess of feathers and the stains of dried blood.

Dream falters again, obviously at a loss for words. He perks up.

"He was the vice president! His actions represent all of L'manburg!"

"He is a teenager. A teenager who's spent most of his time here fighting tooth and nail for freedom. A teenager you've shot; who you've nearly killed." He juts a violent finger at the man.

"A teenager you've traumatized. A teenager who's spent his growing years fighting and sacrificing and bleeding, all because you can't handle the fact you don't know how to control him. You knew how to grasp the minds of everyone else, but not him. So you targeted his family!

You forced his brother into some sick game! Warped Wilbur's mind to turn his back on his friends and family, all because you couldn't stand to have someone here you can't leash! Because of you, I had to kill my son!" His voice ricochets against the stone walls. Rage boils in his mind, red filling his vision as he stares at that damned mask. A snarl encases his words.

"You've plucked his wings apart. Used his baby feathers as fuel so he can be warm. You've scorched his feathers, burnt his poor body like he's nothing! You've chained him up like some kind of- some kind of animal!" He waves his arms back, another step forward, wings ruffling.

"He does one thing against that man you call a king, and he's punished far crueler than anyone else would be! A boy raised in violence gets a moment of peace and you pretend to be surprised when he causes chaos! You've nearly damaged him beyond recognition!

_“You've nearly killed my son!"_

His body acts before he thinks, the arm holding his sword swinging up, catching the masked man by surprise.

The sound of wood splitting rings in his ears.

Blood has never looked so pretty against the white bark.

The once-masked man scrambles back as he hits the floor, clutching his face. Crimson trickles between his fingers. Phil tastes the wrath seething off him in the air as he speaks, face fallen dark and emotionless. His wings expand fully once again, hiding away the entire wall and cabin behind him. Pale diamond-shaped specks embellish the tips of his primary feathers.

"Stay away from my son, Dream." A single threat. "I never want to see your face around here again, and if I do…", his sword glints a dark, dark red as he shifts his grip on the hilt. The message is clear.

Maple wings unfurl messily before he dashes away, sloppy flaps before stabilizing into a quick glide.

Exhaustion rumbles in Phil's bones as he watches Dream run. His wings sag as he turns to look at the wood door, empty thoughts running through his head as he gently opens it and looks in.

Tommy lays on the floor, curled in on himself as his hands fidget with the few intact feathers left on his wings, tuning out Phil's presence. An empty expression marks his face.

His hand grazes over a particularly long, clipped, reddish-grey feather, traveling down the pinion until he can wrap his fingers around it. 

His eye barely twitches as he plucks it, holding it only for a second before letting it fall from his grasp.

Panic glared in Phil’s mind at the sight as he blurred towards Tommy, grabbing his wrists in an attempt to stop him from pulling out more. Phil barely touches Tommy before the teen starts thrashing.

He freezes at the sight of his youngest sobbing out incoherent pleas, dull eyes blurred and unfocused as he tries to shrink himself smaller. Begging and pleading not to be hurt anymore, that his feathers are still short and don't need another trim. Movement becoming lethargic as his breath quickens, chest heaving as his breath stutters. His head still thrashing about as tears fall from his eyes. Phil only looks for an unbearable second before moving to sit directly in front of Tommy. His voice is as gentle as he can make it as his wings flare to block out any other background activity. Guilt beats its course into Phil with every passing moment.

"Tommy, can you breathe with me? Follow my breathing, inhale for five, exhale for five. C'mon, mate, follow as best you can. You can do this, Toms." And so they repeated, repeated, repeated.

Even as he was calming down, Tommy's limbs buzzed and numbed, an unexplainable weight plying his muscles apart. The daunting fear of being grabbed by his father played in his mind over and over, Phil's face morphing between shadows and monsters and Dream. Not once had he seen his father's concerned blue eyes. Not until the slow crawl of time passed and his breathing leveled was he able to see Phil again, no more twisted faces and smiles plaguing him.

It was almost funny to him how broken he was, now that Phil had arrived. When he compared himself to his father, his dad didn't have broken wings, shredded feathers and pinions barely hanging to skin. He didn't have exhaustion carved into his eyes, still as vibrant and warm as they were when Tommy was only a child. He didn't have torn clothes, his coat and chest plate shiny and new and prepared for the cold. His scars were healed and old, Tommys were still pink and inflamed. Phil looked more alive than he did.

He's so cold, even with the blankets and Phil's winter coat and burning fire. His cabin doesn't smell like scorching feathers like it usually does when his fireplace is on.

Maybe he should've asked more questions when Phil bundled him up and said he would be back soon. Maybe he should've asked for Phil to stay. Maybe he should've asked why Phil looked worried.

Maybe he should be worried.

\---

Phil didn't expect a second trip to Techno's in one day, but surprises should be expected from his current situation.

"What do you mean you're not sure about having him here?" Phil asked incredulously, eyes widening as he stares at his oldest.

Techno gives an uncertain look and shrug, "I mean– Phil, Tommy hates me. I don't think he'll wanna be around me. He's made that obvious enough."

The blond hardly believes what his oldest is trying to argue.

"He's your brother, Techno, your youngest brother. He has been tormented and abused for months. Have you been anywhere near him in that time? Have you seen what he's rotting into? Have you seen what Dream's done to his–!" Phil halts, vivid and gory images of what could've become Tommy's wings if he hadn't appeared flashing behind his eyes. He staggers a breath before speaking again, attempting to keep his emotions down. He doesn't know when he started shaking.

"Have you seen what Dream has done to Tommy? Techno, please, Tommy'll be killed if he goes anywhere else. I can't take him in, it took me four hours to get here flying, and Tommy can't– he can't–"

_He can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't–_

A sob cuts his words. His hands fly to wipe his eyes as he cries, raw emotions beginning to rip themselves out of him. Building and building and building.

His body caves and falls to the floor as Techno rushes to him, wrapping an arm behind him in comfort. Phil gasps for air as Techno attempts to soothe him, rubbing a small circle against his shoulder.

"I can't– I can't help him, I can't help him, Techno. Please– please, I just– I can't–"

A long moment passes as Phil sobs his eyes and mind dry before Techno speaks, and even then he sounds uncertain.

"I'll bring Carl for Tommy. It'll take some time to get there but we'll hopefully be back before sundown." He takes a breath, "Phil I– I can't imagine what Tommy looks like right about now, but I know he's only gonna get worse without you there. It would be best if you left now, I need to ready up Carl for a snow-trek." Techno glances out the nearby window, the sun hanging high as it's shrouded by dark clouds.

Phil gives a small nod before they stand, Techno giving him a quick hug, squeezing him when it's reciprocated. Phil had gotten the surprising luck of all three of his sons growing taller than him, with Techno being the tallest when he's not slouching. Sometimes, when it's been a while since he last hugged his kids, it's a shock.

Techno watches as Phil's feathers shift in the breeze, the gentle movements distracting him as a background of building noise echoes in the back of his skull. He watches as his father takes off into the sky with one powerful flap of his wings, soon fading into the low clouds. He waited a moment to listen for the voices and their demands, only for them to subside with a gentle, collective murmur of _"Find Tommy"_ , and _"Get Carl, hurry"_ , and, distantly, _"Kill Dream"_.

Suiting up Carl was typically only for one type of mission, one that included blood and gore and screaming to satiate the ever-growing mob of voices within Techno's mind. Depending on who he meets on this trip, he might have to add another tally to that imaginary board.

After setting Carl's saddle and armor, he hops on, heaving out a sigh before looking forward, hawkish wings taut against his back. With a single crack of reins, Carl bursts into a sprint into the snow, barely slowed by the new snowfall from earlier.

_"Quicker."_

_"Hurry, help Tommy."_

_"Where's Phil?"_

_"Help Tommy."_

_"Kill Dream." Kill Dream._

  
  


The first thing Techno notices as Carl slows into a trot at the mouth of the cave is the weird, off smell of burnt feathers and the stagnant scent of rotten wood. Uncertainty grows as he looks around, noting the tufts of grey feathers and fluff matted into the stone floor. He spots shards of a smiling mask. If he wasn’t nervous enough at the sight of the mess, the hushed sobs and whispers within a stripped log cabin sent a wave of anxiety up his spine. As he walks further into the cave, he sees the sight of his father cradling a shaking form through the doorway.

As he walks forwards, he slows at the sight of Tommy.

_"Panic, panic."_

_"Help him, help Tommy right now."_

_"Protect."_

_"Go home."_

_"Wings?"_

_"Where are they?"_

_"Where are Tommy's wings?"_

Techno stops, eyes straining on clipped and bent feathers hanging from limp wings. It's so much worse than he imagined, pinions barely fitting into follicles as some quiver from the slightest movement. His primaries were mostly gone, savagely clipped and torn and pulled. Some of his secondaries singed at the tips while the rest a disheveled mess of filth. Most of his coverts were missing.

Techno's blood flashes between boiling and freezing, pricks of fear and rage stabbing at his chest, begging to be torn open.

The faint smell of iron hangs around his head.

" **_Blood_ **." The voices coil against his skull in tandem, noises and wails blending into a horribly distorted singularity.

A lit fuse hides behind his eyelids, burning and burning and burning his insides out. The ground sways as he looks at the mess that Tommy is, bathed in reds and iron and panic.

He barely manages to put out the spark as the noise dies down.

His voice breaks as he calls into the cabin, “Phil?”


	2. How They Heal You

Tommy’s exhausted. He’d shut his eyes for what felt like a second, but opened them to Phil cradling him close, panicked breaths passing from him. His body ached, a weight in his ribs making it hard to breathe and the dull prodding inside his skull making him nauseous. His slow inhales and exhales stagger as his chest quivers from the cold forcing its way under his skin and sternum. The coat Phil gave him was tossed around him again but it only felt like dead weight over his body. The thick fur slumps off his shoulders as he attempts to grab it again, hand barely grazing past it. There were voices around him that sounded muddled and faint, just on the edge of his hearing. His faded heartbeat overpowers most sounds around him, the slow pulse in his head distracting him from the nauseating breaths he's taking. His head blanks as his eyes shut.

Tommy continues to phase out of consciousness as Phil brings him up closer to his chest. Seconds later and he feels his weight shifting and he's pulled away and picked up. His head lolls slightly as he's jostled, eyes burning as he looks towards the face of his carrier. He does his best to frown.

Techno glances down at him before letting out a soft sigh, “Hey Tommy, how’s exile goin’ for you?”

Had Tommy’s hearing not gotten so scrambled, he might’ve heard the concern edging in Techno’s voice under the sarcasm.

The teen coughs out a soft “Bitch,” before squeezing his eyes shut. Pressure builds behind his eyes and in his skull as Techno adjusts his hold while letting out a scoff. He missed the way Techno’s face twisted in remorse when Phil placed a hand against his shoulder, guiding him outside. An uncomfortable itch hides in the back of Tommy’s throat, nausea only worsening as the cold outside forces a shiver down his throat into his gut.

“Can you hold the reins, Tommy?” Techno asks, voice sounding too far and too close at once. He shakes his head once, afraid any more movement would result in him throwing up nothing but stomach acid. He vaguely heard Techno sigh before turning, probably to talk to Phil.

He’s knocked around as he feels himself being placed on a horse, an uncomfortable bubble in the back of his throat as he feels himself gag slightly. It goes unnoticed by Phil and Techno. He feels someone climb behind him as he’s pushed to lie back, arms setting around him as he hears a snap of reins before he’s moving again. Maybe he would’ve liked the ride if he wasn’t precariously bouncing every few seconds, his guts feeling like they were ready to come up. He does his best to swallow down the feeling. 

He's barely conscious when they finally arrive at a cottage in the middle of a tundra. His shivering only worsened along their travel, short breath barely passing through his mouth. He's on the verge of passing out as Techno maneuvers them as close to the porch as possible. He's given a bucket when he gags as he's set down, stomach acids burning his throat. 

He barely makes it to a couch assisted by Phil before he blacks out. 

\---

The first thing he does when he wakes up is vomit. His empty stomach forces acid up his throat as his nose stings, tears beginning to slip from him. The dull ache in his limbs and chest prick at his senses, far more uncomfortable than the empty hum buzzing behind his eyelids. He can barely hang his head up to look where he is, and even as he manages, everything shifts and moves too quickly for himself to remember or process. 

Pain and anxiety slowly settle into Tommy’s brain. His throat is unbearably agitated as he retches and coughs. He barely notices himself beginning to sob, discomfort digging its way into his bones and muscles as he gasps for breath. He’s exhausted but can't calm down, stress forcing its way out of him through his tears. He vaguely feels an even weight on his body, barely seeing a blur of red and white draped over him through watery eyes. He forces his fingers through his hair, anxiety beginning to eat away at his mind as a headache writhes inside his skull. The lights in the room are too much, the texture of his clothes is too much, the heat in his skin is too much. 

Gnawing muscles knot and unknot, pain tears through his wings as his body forces him to curl into himself. Seconds of pain pass by like hours as he sobs into his arms, attempting to quiet himself and the headache by biting into his wrist. He barely hears someone sit beside him and attempt to hush him.

Cold hands gently cup his face and bring him up, slowly thumbing away his tears. The cold is soothing compared to the burning just under his skin but it's still too much. He barely manages to crack open an eye to see the blurry figure of his father, what looks to be pity written all over his face. He's speaking but the words just aren't processing as Tommy's body seizes again, forcing tension into his spine as his breath snags. 

He's hurting so, so much. Discomfort ripping into his joints as his throat stings from his crying and acidic burning. The muscles in his wings feel like they're slowly being stripped apart as they forcefully flex, pushing away his makeshift blanket and sending loose feathers everywhere. The air freezes his burning skin as he chokes out another sob. He hears Phil say something to someone on the side before trying to soothe him again.

  
  


Agonizing minutes pass before a damp cloth is placed against Tommy's forehead. With the pounding headache relieved slightly, he lets out an uneven sigh. Phil moved onto the couch so Tommy can fully lean against his shoulder so he wasn’t putting any more strain on his body. His attempts at soothing Tommy worked a bit, managing to calm the teen’s sobbing into even tears, but it was obvious enough that he’s sick. Really, really sick. There were quite a few factors for his sudden illness, like malnourishment, possible hypothermic shock, the flu, an infection from his wings, or the sudden environmental change. All are a possibility, especially in his current state.

Phil's mind bubbles with anxiety, he hasn’t dealt with a sick child in a dishearteningly long time. He barely remembers how he treats himself when he’s sick. Techno’s presence looms in the background, staring blankly at the ill teenager. Phil calls out to him, snapping Techno out of his daze.

“Can you run a bath for him? We need to check his wings for any possible signs of infections, you’ve got healing potions brewing, right?”

“Always do,” he says as he walks out of the room towards the bathroom.

Phil glances down at Tommy, then to his wings. He watches as they puff out as much as they can manage, feathers quivering as they tense over and over. His wings stretch out to mimic sympathetically, much more gracefully and much less painfully. He does his best to wrap his cloak over Tommy again. Water pouring echoes on the edge of his hearing as he struggles with getting Tommy’s wings to settle. He feels the guilty frustration building in his shoulders and chest as Tommy breaks down against him. 

He’s supposed to be able to handle this. He’s supposed to be a good dad. He’s dealt with sick kids before,  _ why is it so difficult? Why is he getting so upset? _

Annoyance pricks at his skull with a dull murmur as he finally gives up, opting to run a hand against Tommy’s back instead. It isn’t long before Techno calls out that the water’s warm. With a sigh, Phil does his best to support Tommy and carry him towards the bathroom. Techno waits outside the door, eyeing Tommy's panicky form. Leading him in and letting him lean against the sink, he tests the water temperature, eyes narrowing slightly at the cloudy heat against his fingertips. Phil turns around to face Tommy as the teen wobbles and coughs into his arm. 

He's a wreck and Phil's chest tightens as guilt strangles his heart because he knows–he knows he could've done something to stop this. He could've been better and maybe none of this would be happening. Frustration and guilt clash for his full attention but he shakes away the thoughts, his son needs him and he's going to be there. 

_ Better late than never _ whispers in the back of his mind. He does his best not to flinch as he talks. 

"Alright, Tommy. Go ahead and clean yourself up, if you need help with anything knock on the wall. I'll be outside the door, take all the time you need. Once you're done, Techno and I need to check your wings, alright?"

Tommy's only response is a weak hum as he coughs. Phil winces at the sound as he watches the teen's wings flinch. After a moment of silently looking over Tommy to make sure he wouldn't faint again, Phil leaves. 

Techno stands a bit away from the door, looking off to the side, wings hackled tight against his back. Exhaustion creases under his eyes as a rough sigh forces past his lips as Phil stands beside him. Techno snaps his attention to Phil suddenly, unnerved remorse written all over his face. 

"What exactly  _ happened  _ to Tommy? I mean- I get that he was pretty, uh… torn up being around Dream for so long, but there's no way Dream would do this to Tommy, right? Tommy, Tommy just a teenager, he's sixteen for End's sake, there's no way Dream would do this to a teenager, right?" He rushed out, shaking his head incredulously at the while. Phil's brows crease with sorrow.

"I've told you what Tommy told me. I know Tommy typically isn't the best source of information but he isn't stupid enough to make up something  _ that _ horrible. And there's no way he'd mangle his wings like that. Plus, "Phil shrugs weakly, "Dream solidified that he was the reason Tommy's all messed up now, he genuinely thought that tormenting Tommy was the best kind of revenge or whatever."

Techno responds with a low hum before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He reaches into a small side pouch on his side and pulls out two small bottles of a shimmering pink liquid. He swirls them slightly, the liquid glistening as though glitter was poured into them before handing them to Phil, their shine settling almost instantly. With a small thank-you nod, Techno leaves for the living room as Phil takes his spot beside the door, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. Horrific scenes play behind his eyes as he tries to imagine a better time when Techno and Wil were still kids and Tommy was only a toddler. 

His thoughts filled with training a tiny Techno with little tuffs of fluff and feathers. Barely coherent images of Wilbur and Tommy flash by, overpowered by Techno and Techno and Techno. He doesn't remember what Wilbur's baby wings looked like. What did Tommy's look like? Does he really not remember?

Or did he just… not care?

No, surely he cared, he's their father after all. Wil and Techno were twins, so their wings must've looked similar. Wilbur's current wings look like melting wax colored a sad excuse in honor of the proud hawk wings Techno has.

Did he ever teach Wilbur how to use his wings properly? He must've, how else was Wilbur able to fly…?

Phil never saw Wilbur fly.

_ Fuck. _

Guilt ravages his soul as his face scrunches with self-disgust. 

\--- 

  
  


Tommy's body hurts. He takes a small breath as he attempts to straighten his back, anxiety creeping into his bones. He's waiting patiently –or as patient he can be– for Phil and Techno to finish whatever they're doing so they can hurry up and check his wings. He's not nervous about it at all. His fidgeting isn’t because he’s anxious. It isn’t because he’s scared of them touching his feathers. He vaguely notices the uncomfortable quivering in his ribs as he tries to breathe. 

He’s not scared, he’s just overreacting. 

The heavy footfall against spruce wood flooring snaps him out of thought, his head snapping in the general direction of the sound. Voices muddle as Techno and Phil whisper amongst themselves, whatever words passing between them hollow and smudged in Tommy’s ears. Phil words something in Tommy’s direction, something about sitting behind him, but as fast as the words come they go.

His eyes trail his father as he walks just out of view behind him before snapping to Techno as he sits before him. His eyes trace warily along Techno’s hands as they raise before him palms up. 

_ “Tommy… hands- if… need to stop.”  _ His words blur together and instead of asking Techno to repeat, Tommy shakily nods his head. Techno’s brows furrow as he looks down at the teen. 

“Tommy.” Clear. Blank.  _ Worried _ . The teen lifts his head to look at Techno. 

“If you need Phil to stop, squeeze my hands, okay? Or if you need to stop for any other reason.” Techno repeats, turning his head down slightly to see if Tommy copies. He does.

The steady press of a warm hand pricks against his back and makes his body jolt. Phil pauses, shifting behind him as he leans his head forward. Tommy barely sees Phil's head from the corner of his eye, concern scrunching his expression. A quiet conversation passes between them before Phil relents, Tommy exhaling a soft shaking breath. 

Phil's hands gently thread into Tommy’s rust-shaded feathers, gently petting down puffed feathers and shifting them enough to check over them individually. Tommy chokes on his breath, the feeling of his feathers moving sending a nearly unbearable heat into his spine. Techno and Phil both watch as Tommy curls into himself as he inhales. Phil’s hands slow to a stop in his feathers, eyes passing between the disheveled and burnt feathers laying between his fingers and the shivering shoulders of his son. 

Techno slowly pushes Tommy back, resting his hand under the teens, electing to ignore how Tommy’s fingers instinctually wrap around his palm. He also chooses to ignore the way his expression softens at the touch, too reminiscent of a childhood he’s pushed down. He watches with concerned eyes as Tommy slowly inhales, seemingly exhausted despite passing out earlier. 

“You okay Tommy?” Phil asks quietly, moving a hand to push any hair that fell into Tommy’s face back. 

The teen responds with a weak hum before whispering out “Tired.”

At that, Phil lets out a soft sigh before gently smiling, “That’ll happen, don’t worry Toms, we can stop if you need. Is it alright if I pull any dead feathers?”

Tommy does his best to nod his head, his wings attempting to shift before dropping. His quietness concerns Phil just a bit more than he thought, but he does his best to push it to the back of his mind. 

Hesitating, Phil cards his fingers down, looking over the frail pinions of Tommy’s secondaries and primaries. He watches every slight movement Tommy makes, ensuring he’s not overloading Tommy’s already withered state. As he does his best to soothe the puffed and brittle feathers from a seemingly constant stream of anxiety, Tommy lets out a low whine. Phil slowly rubs circles into tense muscles before turning his attention to the damaged feathers that end in jagged cuts. Less than a moment passes before Techno stops him, Phil’s eyes getting a glance at the white-knuckled grip of Tommy’s hands around Techno’s. 

"Toms? You wanna take a break?" Phil asks, moving his hands away. A sick hum is the only answer he gets. 

He watches as Techno eyes Tommy's huddled form, brows knotted. The high note Tommy whimpers out forces guilt down the others' throats. Phil watches with uncertainty as Techno leans his head down to whisper to Tommy.

“You’re okay, Tommy, you’re safe, deep breaths, alright? You’re home, you’re safe.” The soft words of reassurance from Techno slowly chip away at Tommy’s forceful tensing, eventually leaving him exhausted and weak. It’s Phil who moves first, adjusting himself to be within Tommy’s sight.

“We can stop now, Toms. We can leave your primaries for now since I didn’t see anything too worrisome along your quills. You’ll just need some healing potions every so often to keep your feathers healing. Me ‘nd Techno’ll have to check up and preen your wings often to make sure they don’t get damaged anymore though, okay?” Tommy opts to roll his head slightly instead of speaking. It’s enough of a reply for both adults. 

As Tommy slowly moves to stand, both Phil and Techno move to keep the teen steady. A silent conversation passes between the two and Techno lets go.

“I’ll bring up some stew and water ‘and a potion. It won’t be a lot but we can’t have you suddenly loading up on carbs, you’ll just get sicker.” Techno explains before leaving for the kitchen. Phil slowly guides the weary teen upstairs towards an empty bedroom for Phil that he rarely occupied.

The room itself is spacious, built to accommodate massive wings. 

It feels like an insult.

Tommy’s too tired to think about how much salt is in the wound as he collapses into the bundle of blankets in the corner of the room, just under trapdoor windows. Glass fills the spaces between thick planks of oak, insulating the room from the heavy snowfall outside. As Tommy does his best to nestle into the thick blankets Phil lights the torches and lamps. 

Tommy opens his eyes to barren walls, shadows of feathers dancing in the corners of the room and he swears he’s trapped in a nightmare.  _ Empty walls mocking him for ever thinking he’ll escape him. Piles of feathers used as kindle that’ll barely warm him. He’ll die of malnutrition or infection if he doesn’t plummet first. He’ll plummet first; if he dies, he’s dying on his own volition. He’ll build himself high and force himself to fly, and if he falls, his final “fuck you” to the world will be his mangled corpse against hard stone.  _

Phil snaps him out of his delirium, hushing and thumbing away the dull tears rolling down Tommy's tired face. Tommy thinks to pull away, scraping the idea almost instantly and leaning into the warm touch, desperate for the attention of safety. Anything to block out the thoughts clawing his mind.

He's being needy. He wants to punch himself for acting like this. 

_ "I'm sorry." _

Tommy's silence is more palatable than the broken apology spilling from him. The silence at least meant his will might've been unbroken. But an apology? An apology so depressed and quiet and shattered that hurts so much to hear? Phil's body begs for relief from the hollowing sorrow splitting open his sternum. Phil coaxes Tommy to lean into him, which the teen obliges to. 

Tommy weakly grips the green fabric of Phil's clothes, pressing his face into the crook of Phil's neck. Phil returns the gesture, one arm wrapping around the teen's shoulders while the other cards into his blond hair. Neither of them acknowledges the quiet sniffles and cries of the other. 

Phil eventually adjusts their foreheads to rest against each other, thumbs noting all the little nicks and cuts dug into Tommy's skin. He looks at the other, watching how the teen downcasts his eyes. They don't look any different from stone still. Just hollow, cold, and weathered. 

Still sickly, still broken. Still apologetic, still young.  _ Still, still, still… _

Still a war traumatized child, still able to hold a sword like it's an extension of his arm. 

It's sickening and poison in his skull. 

Thankfully, the sound of Techno entering pulls them both out of their thoughts. Tommy takes an agonizingly long time getting to the bottom of the bowl.

  
  


It’s disheartening to watch Tommy nearly choke on the health potion, discomfort coursing through his veins as skin stretches itself shut and feathers quiver into haphazard alignment. Phil does his best to soothe the aches in Tommy’s spine as he doubles over, so unnervingly quiet as his muscles twitch. He doesn’t leave, even after Tommy passes out curled into the blankets and quivering. 

After blurring hours pass by, Phil finally moves to leave, pressing a ghost of a kiss against his son’s forehead. He forces himself downstairs, sitting before the fireplace. He rests his face in his palms, letting out a low sigh as his fingers force up into his hair.

_ It’s not too late. _

_ It can’t be too late. _


	3. How You'll Rise And Rise

Recovering, in Tommy’s mind, is not worth the effort. 

The constant sweet taste of health potions numbs into a sickly sweet reminder of rot. The smell of them alone began to make him nauseous. Eventually, it got to the point where he couldn’t down the shimmering liquid and threw it and his meal back up. Even when Phil offered the idea of replacing potions with apples the sugary taste felt acidic in Tommy’s mouth. Chewing had become a force of habit, the teen gnawing into his cheek to the point where the sweetness was overpowered by warm iron. 

The self-destructive habit went mostly unnoticed until Phil noticed the smidge of red in the apple Tommy was eating. 

Recovery did not feel worth it.

The attention Tommy’s wings got began to hurt, the gentle touches to align and check stung. Despite the healthy progress his wings were making to prepare for flight, the muscles he strained begged for a break. The short days blur past as he practices and practices and practices. With each day, his anxiety builds, each approaching hour and shift of his feathers reminds him of his upcoming molts. A new molt means new feathers, his actual,  _ adult _ feathers. 

What if they come in wrong somehow? What if he isn’t strong enough to use them?  _ What if he damages them? What if he pulls them out? What if someone clips them again? _

No, Phil and Techno wouldn’t do that to him. They wouldn’t, they would’ve kept clipping his wings if they wanted him grounded, they wouldn’t treat him like glass if they were planning on breaking him in the end. Anyways, if they didn’t want him better they could’ve just left him on that mountain to die, and they wouldn’t do that, they want him safe. That’s what they’ve been repeating every moment Tommy even thinks of doubting them. He can trust them. They’ll keep him safe. Any obstacle he’s forced to endure, Phil and Techno have powered through with him. 

From ensuring his wings are preened properly to making sure he eats, they’re been slowly helping him out of the self-destruction he forced himself into when he was first taken away. Of course, they’re not obvious with their help. Whether it be a plate with snacks left out for him or a nudge in the right direction, they’ve been there at the right time to help him and care for him. He knew that they’d help with his molt, they promised they’d be here to tend to the pins and discomfort he’d endure. He knows the molt will be soon, he’s been so tired and so nervous and it feels as though some days he’s trying to move in the ocean. 

Okay, so maybe recovery might be worth it now that he really thinks about it.

He’s scared about this molt. He’s scared to see his feathers. It might just be his body sending him into mild hysteria or it may be a foreboding warning, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s scared and that his feathers are gonna be the best anyone’s ever seen. 

  
  


There’s been an uncomfortable silence blanketing over the land. Despite Techno and Phil’s best attempts to locate Dream, they’ve been unsuccessful. After Phil questioned everyone he could in L’manburg and no one was able to offer any information on his whereabouts, he turned to Techno for assistance. Even after Techno used every trick he has for tracking, it all amounted to nothing. Every lead they might’ve gotten proved fruitless. 

It was beginning to get tiresome.

Not only were they failing at finding Dream, but they also had to deal with Tommy’s molt, building on the stress they were already going through. They wouldn’t show it obviously, but it would be a lie to say they didn’t feel the pinpricks of annoyance in their chests as Tommy snapped and apologized every few moments. The teen’s obvious embarrassment at his bare wings as Phil helped relieve the pins for new feathers was amusing at least, as if Phil and Techno hadn’t been treating him the past month and a half. To say Techno and Phil were in awe of Tommy’s full wings would be an understatement. 

Inside, beautiful ivory fading into midnight blues and reds with dark rusted streaks painted every primary Tommy owned. The tips of his feathers looked as if they were dipped in black dye, speckles of grey and white and gold painting the ends. His coverts a pearly white faded into red, light in color and sturdy. His patagiums the same light ivory with dark streaks lying horizontally over them. The outside, solid beige marked over with a fierce maroon with a dark lining. ovalistic white spots trailing up every rachis. They’re shaped similar to Phil’s, lengthy feathers and strongly built. He can’t stop staring at them. Even as Phil preens them he can’t stop examining every feather, agonizingly questioning how these are his wings, how  _ these _ feathers are his. If he was fated to be right about one thing, his wings are  _ definitely  _ the coolest. Of course, he still has to eat the golden apple to ensure no lasting effects of exile would trickle into his new feathers, but he was just fine doing that. He has to make sure he treats his wings with the utmost care. 

He only fell asleep after begging for Phil to help him fly the next day and ensuring he settled down so his wings would display just the way he wanted. Phil stood to the side the whole time, laughing to himself as Tommy continued to admire his wings and point out whatever similarities he could find between the two. It was endearing, to say the least. The excitement and childish light in Tommy’s eyes as he rambled about every detail in his feathers brought a soft smile to Phil, beyond glad to see Tommy’s recovery in his and Techno’s care. 

  
  


Even after Phil managed to wrangle Tommy into a reasonable training time in the afternoon the teen wouldn’t stop badgering the other two about finally taking off. The idea was exciting enough, but by the time they moved outside for practice, Techno plugged his ears with cotton and held his arms crossed. 

“Alright Tommy, remember how you prepare to fly?” Phil asks, rolling his shoulders and stretching his wings out completely. 

Tommy is all wide smiles as he nods and mimics Phil’s movements, opening his wings up and out, nerves trying to take hold of him only to be drowned in excitement. The teen watches closely as Phil crouches slightly, wings pointed up, before taking a powerful swoop down, jumping up as the sudden updraft launches him into the sky. He quickly becomes a speck in the sky as the snow beneath him scatters around. Tommy does his best to watch Phil descend towards the ground, quickly picking up speed before slowing, gliding in a small circle before planting his feet down first, only needing a few steps to fully stop his momentum.

“We’ll practice take-off first, seeing as how that’s the one thing that’ll get you up in the sky ‘nd keep you up.” He says, a small smile on his face from the amazement in the teen’s eyes.

Despite the occasional adjustment to form, Tommy took up learning quite well. Despite acting like he doesn’t need the tips and help, he follows every quip offered and easily enough gets his positioning right. The devious smile that appears on Phil’s face as they prepare to launch doesn’t fill Tommy with as much excitement. With a clap of his hands, Phil smiles wider at Tommy.

“Alright Toms, seeing as how you’ve gotten that down, how about I meet you, “ he pauses before pointing a finger straight, “up there?” Of course, Tommy isn’t going to turn down a challenge like that, and after his wings fling up, he’s shooting into the sky, exhilaration coursing through his brain as the air cools around him.  The muscles in his wings ache ever so slightly but it’s barely a hindrance as his wings meet each slow fall with a powerful flap. Despite the thinner air, his lungs fill with frosted breath. His limbs buzz with excitement as he looks around. There's barely a cloud in the sky, the sun beating down against his ivory wings, glinting off his feathers. He never really thought about how open the sky is, despite his constant daydreaming during his childhood. It's so… freeing.

He's free.

_ He's free. _

A filling, thriving feeling expands in his chest, as if a lock had just been undone and every raw emotion he's forced down is spilling from him. He's safe, he's free, he's… He's flying. 

He nearly hollers at the thought, taking a deep breath, and lets out a shaky laugh. Turning his head down, he sees the dark wings of Phil barrel up towards him, much more steady than Tommy’s constant, inexperienced movement. He's greeted with a proud look as Phil levels with him. (Tommy won't admit he's never felt stronger than in that moment when he sees Phil's smile and knows it's only for him.) __

"You're practically a natural!" Phil yells over the flutter of feathers and wind. "All you need to do now is land!"

Landing, Tommy believes, is going to be the worst. He's only proven right as he botches his first attempt, tripping over his feet and face planting into the snow. Techno doesn't make any attempts to hide his snickering as Tommy pushes himself up, blatantly annoyed. He also doesn't hide his snickering on Tommy's second or third or fourth attempt at a graceful landing, Techno finally pushing himself up to offer pointers. 

Tommy, again, acts ignorant to Techno, quietly following along with his movements. Even after practicing his foot-work for near hours, he continues to fall or stumble. With his patience running thin, Phil finally stops him. 

"Alright mate, I think that's enough for today. Any more and you might over-work your wings." 

"Aww, but Phil-" Tommy starts, drawing out the i.

With a chuckle Phil steps towards the house, Techno following after and eventually Tommy after some one-sided complaining. No one makes any comments as Tommy examines his feathers silently in front of the fire. No one comments as Tommy wipes his eyes with a thin smile. Techno offers a single pat on Tommy's shoulder before grabbing a book and sitting beside the teenager. As he reads to himself, Phil sits himself on the other side of Tommy, slowly smoothing and adjusting his own feathers. 

Something warm blooms in Tommy's chest as he examines his wings, the presence of his father and brother capturing him in a soothing hold. No one comments as Phil wraps a wing around Tommy, fingers carding into his hair as Tommy cries for a reason he doesn't completely understand. No one comments as Techno leans over and thumbs soothing circles against Tommy's shoulder as he continues his reading. Incoherent babbling turns into a soft murmur as Tommy whispers about his wings, his feathers, his  _ freedom. _

Tommy's wings are the goddamn coolest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like, this can be where the story ends :) it may be for the best seeing as the worst happens next


	4. Just To Fall

_**Trigger Warning for Heavy Mutilation/Blood** _

The house was silent aside from the occasional creak from the harsh winds outside. The aggressive snowstorm outside forces hail against the wooden beams and planks, thudding against the glass. The torchlight barely lit Tommy's room as he huddled under his covers, doing his best not to panic because of the storm raging outside. Despite how much he wishes, Phil and Techno won't be able to get home until the storm dies down. He's stuck alone, cold, and most definitely paranoid. 

Something… something is definitely wrong. There's a horrible discomfort in his bones and the paranoia isn't getting any better despite his best attempts to calm down. He's on the verge of spiraling and the disgusting crawl of anxiety up his spine and wings makes him gag. He freezes mid-tremor. He heard something, he definitely heard something. When did he start crying? Why is he crying?

_Thud._

Tommy does his best not to yelp, slapping his hand over his mouth. He silently slips himself completely under the covers, curled as much as he can into a tight ball to stop the shaking. He strains his hearing, hoping, _begging_ to hear something. 

No noise. Hollow, empty wind howls. 

**_Thud._ **

Boots hit stone, the porch. Not Phil, not Techno, they give a signal when they're home. Not Phil, not Techno. Tears spill silently across his face, biting down on the side of his palm to stop him from making noise. There's no creak as the front door opens and closes aside from the wind. Tommy's hyper-aware of every not-so-quiet footfall against the wood planks. They taunt him, slowly pacing around the bottom floor before moving into the basement. 

Flashing warnings go off in his brain, begging him to move, to leave, to get out. The snowstorm outside only worsens, if Tommy were to step outside like this, he'd be buried alive. He'd freeze to death. He'd die.

He's not ready to die.

He doesn't want to die. 

\---

It's been months, stewing and waiting for the perfect moment. Watching distantly over the spruce house, waiting, waiting, _waiting._ Cold thoughts stringing together crudely until finally, _finally_ webbing a full plan together. 

Perfectly, perfectly planned out. 

Techno and Phil wouldn't be home, neither of them are suited for storm flight. They'd be stuck away, far from Tommy. No interruptions. Just like old times. He'll make it _exactly_ like old times.

He ensures to make just enough noise as he traverses around the house. He knows Tommy's listening out for him, he _knows_ how terrified Tommy is, he can practically taste it in the air. He's been prepping his weapons for this exact moment, his sword sharpened to the point it carves into the wood it barely touches. He knows exactly where to cut, exactly what to pull, exactly how to keep him grounded. 

If he's not allowed to control Tommy, he's going to make sure Tommy knows who has power here. He initially thought about killing Tommy only to quickly scrap the idea. Tommy's fun. He's always been the source of everything and he's going to make sure Tommy knows he's just a pawn on the chessboard. 

He makes no noise as he walks up the stairs, only to slam his foot down on the top step. The slightest shuffle from the room adjacent from the stairs makes him smirk. He's quiet as he stalks around the second floor before finally stopping at the door. His feathers quiver in anticipation as he slowly, _slowly_ pushes the door open. It makes no noise. The house is silent. The room is silent. He enters and closes the door behind him. His smirk grows and twists into a horrible, face-splitting grin, whispering out a low, hollow sing-song,

_"Oh, Tommy."_

\---

_"You're wings came in, Tommy. I saw them. Can I see them again?"_ The creeping, quiet voice plagues Tommy as he chokes back a sob, involuntarily shaking at Dream's voice. Silent prayers begging for someone, _anyone_ to come home and save him, _please for the love of the End please come save me_. He listens as Dream slowly walks towards him, something scraping against the wooden floor. 

_"I know you hear me, Tommy. I know you're hiding your wings from me. Oh c'mon, Tommy. It won't hurt to show me. I know they're such a nice color, I saw them in the sunlight, they're so pretty."_ A weight sits down on the edge of the bed, teasing him. He feels a hand slowly reach over him, grabbing at the blanket end above his head. He's on the verge of passing out from how long he's forced himself to hold his breath. 

Light slowly falls upon his face and he shuts his eyes tight, tears still streaming down his face. His wings tremble as he forces them tight against his back but it doesn't take much for them to be forced open. The uncomfortable grip Dream has against the wrist bone of his wing begins to hurt from how tight he's holding it. He feels the way his feathers scrunch up and bend in his grasp and he nearly shouts. He stops himself as he opens his eyes and sees the glinting, sharp end of a netherite sword in Dream's grasp.

_"You know Tommy, I don't think I'll clip your wings yet. I've been experimenting and I think I know something better for you."_ In an instant, Tommy is pulled from the sheets and forced into his stomach against the wooden floor, Dream hitting his foot into the spot in his spine directly between his wings. Tommy screams as Dream pulls his left wing back, his bones and muscles screeching in pain. Dream's hand glides across his primaries before grabbing the very last one. Tommy's right wing does its best to beat against Dream, only to be forced into the floor as Dream steps on his feathers. Another agonized scream and his feathers twist and pull under Dream's shoe. His breathing quickens as everything goes silent, his heartbeat the loudest thing in the room as Tommy sobs. He's barely coherent as he hears the breeze of a sword swing behind his head. 

"Don't move, Tommy. We wouldn't want your feathers getting damaged for no reason. I don't want you getting hurt for no reason." Dream says too casually as his sword presses under his wings thumb bone. Torturous panic flares into his bones and skin, his blood running frozen as the blade moves down the feather. The blade scrapes along his skin before cutting it open, the blood attempting to run instantly cauterized as the blade is pushed deeper. Tommy nearly faints from the burning pain as he _swears_ something clips his bone. 

Then it does. The burning pain roars tenfold throughout his back as he feels his bone melt away and burn, a sudden sweet scent overpowering his nose and nearly making him vomit. The smell drips down his open wound, the pain halting for a second before numbing. He's a sobbing, teary mess as the sword takes its place in the gash it created, slowly cutting through the rest of the bone. The pressure suddenly stops and his wing can barely move as it is released. He can't feel half his wing. He can't turn to look at it, his neck cramping from the flashing pain and strain put on his wings. 

_"See Tommy? That could've gone so much worse if you kept trying to flail around!"_ The laugh hiding in Dream's voice terrifies the poor teenager. "I'm not done yet though, they're still something I need to do before I leave. 

Tommy feels how Dream crouches over him, his knee now in place of the foot between his wings. He feels coarse hands force his wings even flatter than before and Tommy nearly faints again. Dream's sword slowly glides into the skin connecting his wing to his back. Tommy's raw voice tries to cry out, his vocal cords silencing themselves as his throat stings. The sword burns away the blood spilling onto it, and he forces it farther into his skin until finally,

Numbing. Nothing but a horrible buzzing in his spine. There's… His wing is still there. Why can't he feel it? Why… Why won't it move? The hum buzz drilling into his bones worsens until all his muscles and nerves feel like they're exploding. He can't feel his wing but he can feel the pain. 

_" There we go! Now I'm done."_ The smile in his voice is gone in an instant, the cold, icy tone feeling like a knife stabbing into Tommy's chest. He's surprised it isn't.

_"You should've stayed in Logsteadshire, Tommy. This is what happens when you don't listen to your friends."_ The cruel pressure forcing him into the ground lifts and another potion is poured onto his wing. It's too late for the nerves to force themselves together and it's too late for the damage to be repaired. 

He can't move.

_"I think I'll take this. You won't be needing it anyway._ " Dream says with a snicker, slamming the door open and closed.

  
  


Tommy finally passes out. Maybe he will die today.

\---

Something's wrong.

Both Techno and Phill feel it as they rest by the fire in a cave opening. Something is wrong and they're stuck debating whether or not to brave the storm as best they can to get back home. To get back to Tommy. 

Something's wrong with Tommy. They shouldn't have left that morning. They should've paid attention to the weather, maybe there were signs they missed that would've told them a storm would suddenly brew and force them away. Phil wants to get home immediately. Techno points out that if they try and fly home they could get hurt. They both know something's wrong.

"Techno, _please_. I can't wait here until the storm dies down! Something's off and Tommy's home alone!" Phil says, voice raised as his arm extends to the cave's mouth. 

"Phil, I know, I got a bad feeling too but we can't risk ourselves getting hurt trying to help Tommy." The words sting in Techno's mouth but he continues. "We won't be able to help him if we can't help ourselves first." 

"We both promised Tommy we'd keep him safe and if this, this, " Phil stutters on his words, eyes flashing between his hands, " _feeling_ is any kind of warning then we should do something."

They rarely bump heads but stubbornness must run in the family. Techno sighs, annoyed and tired and cold. 

"Phil we-"

"I'll leave by myself then, Techno. If you're not going to help Tommy then I will. I don't want another son to die because I was careless." Phil seethes at his oldest, wings rustling angrily. In only seconds he flings on his thick coat, wings spread wide as he forces himself into the storming snowfall. 

Techno stands there for a moment before falling back, hands holding his head. Long minutes pass before an angry sigh passes between his lips. He forces himself up, stomping the fire out before scattering its remnants before throwing his cloak on, sheathing his sword hastily before sprinting out the cave, wings needing only one powerful stroke before he's flashing through the sky against the wind. 

_"I swear to the gods above…"_ Techno mumbles to himself, rage boiling under his skin. 

\---

The house smells like blood and frost. Phil shakes off as much snow as he can as he rushes upstairs having already done the four short and long knocks the three of them agreed upon. 

Tommy's door is shut. It smells like blood. His body recoils as he touches the door handle. It's warm, like someone held it not too long ago. 

"Tommy?" His voice cracks as he opens the door slowly. His eyes look down, seeing stains of dark crimson against wood planks. Damaged feathers scattered and painted in blood. The disgusting mingling smell of a health potion and iron makes him sick. He swings the door open. 

  
  


Phil's never screamed before like he did as his eyes fell on his son.

  
  
  


Techno can hear the scream as he barrels towards the porch. He's about to rush in, only stopped when a wave of voices behind his eyes scream

" _THE FLOOR."_

" _LOOK AT THE FLOOR!"_

" _FOOTPRINTS."_

" **_FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS!"_ **

His eyes fall to the ground, noticing under his and Phils rushed foot prints the smallest smidge of a print leaving. Following his judgment, he looks further off from the porch. His eyes narrow on a small drip of red in the sea of white. He feels the way his muscles contract as smoke plumes into his lungs. 

_That son of a-._

Techno darts off after the barely visible trail of blood and footprints before his wings force him into the sky. Tommy's blood burns his nose as he follows it, but if he's going to end this, he's ending it _permanently_ . His skin pricks and scratches as the voices cascade into a single, screaming chorus demanding _blood._

_And by the gods if he isn't going to give it to them._

As his wings move to keep his momentum, something barrels into him from above, two bodies rocketing into the thick snow. Tommy's blood fills Techno's nose and he spirals into a blind rage. 

  
  
  


Phil stands at the doorway, frozen as the light passes by him into the dark room. He's crying and he would throw up if he wasn't horrified. 

Tommy lays limp on the floor, feathers matted and trampled. His… His left wing is missing. It's… missing.

_It's gone, it's gone, it's gone, it's gone it's-_

Half his wing is missing, his primaries gone, everything under the alula just, gone. His bone is exposed, or at least, _part_ of the bone. Cauterized and singed feathers hang dead from the edge where the cut is. His back is stomped and bloody, his right wing laying completely limp and lifeless at his side. There's a large cut at the base of his wing. The room smells like iron.

Phil's terrified to go up to the body. He doesn't want to risk one of the outcomes. He doesn't want to find out another one of his kids is dead. He can't, he can't. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want this. 

Against his better judgment, with a hand over his mouth, he slowly backs out of the room, and shuts the door. He doesn't stop crying. He can't move.

  
  
  


Techno grapples at the body against his back, sharpening claws ripping into freckled flesh. As he attempts to twist in his grasp, his wings beat as hard as they can against the wind, desperately trying to keep him airborne. The feeling of a sword digging into his shoulder falters his wings and they fall even faster. Focusing all his energy into grabbing his assailant, his hand finds grip, ripping forward.

In his grasp is Dream, a maniacal smile ripped into his face. He's no longer holding his sword, the weapon still embedding into his flesh. Techno does his best to flap, barely managing as pain ripples into his muscles. His pupils constrict on ivory attached to his hip. 

_Pretty ivory fading into blues and reds and black. Speckles of light hidden in the darkest ends. Pale white fading into red. Stripped ivory. Blood. Tommy's blood._

_Tommy._

**_Tommy's wing._ **

Techno roars, unexplainable wrath making his vision red. In place of feet, sharp hooves slam into Dream's stomach, kicking him towards the earth. Keratin claws wrap around his axe handle, power coursing into the blade as he rips the sword from him back. Massive wings fold in and he's diving towards the green blob partially buried in the snow. 

A single clawed hand extends out, aiming right for the masked man's neck. It hits its marks. He lets out a choked sob as the sounds of bones snapping echoes in their ears, only to be replaced by a wry smile. 

_"Even if you kill me, you can't fix him."_ He coughs.

The smell of blood overpowers Techno's senses as he leans back, raising his axe up high. The axe blade no longer smooth, now ragged and spiked and dangerous, a scarily red hue glowing along the edge. Techno slams the blade down, the axehead lodging into snapping ribs. He doesn't die, a horrible gasping laugh escaping his lips. 

Techno raises the axe again, power forcing its way into his arms and hands as he slams back down. Again. Again. Again.

Sick crunching fills his ears as the empty chasm in Dream's chest reeks of iron and sweets and rot. Red has never looked so pretty against white.

The blood splattered across his clothes finally numbs the voices in the back of his mind, his own thoughts finally coherent. Keratin changes back to flesh and hooves force themselves back into feet. Pain shoots through his mouth as adrenaline drains, sharpened tusks dulling back down to their usual size. His shoulder hurts. It's cold. He wants to go home. 

After grabbing Dream's weapons, hesitantly holding Tommy's wing, and trying to orientate himself, he starts the slow, freezing trek home.

  
  
  


Phil hunches over in front of Tommy's door, harsh, broken sobs forcing and ripping themselves from his throat. He's quaking, his wings pressing around him in a mock attempt to soothe himself. He lost another one. He's missing his son.

_He's gone, he's gone, he's gone._

_Is this his fault? Is his son's blood on his hands because he couldn't move quick enough? He just left him there to rot. Does he really deserve to be a father after failing more than half his family? Did… Was he the reason Tommy's nothing but a mangled corpse in his room? Why couldn't he have just stayed? Why didn't he-_

_Thud._

Phil shoots his head up, blankly staring forward like he's lost his mind. The thoughts of hysteria quickly subside as a weak whimper sounds behind him. Behind the door. Tommy's door. 

Phil bolts up, swinging the door open. Tommy's body twitches, another pained whimper escaping the poor boy. Phil can't speak, throat too tight to let any words pass. He rushes to Tommy, being as delicate as he can as he pulls his son up to lean into his lap. Tommy's grasp is too weak for comfort, barely hanging onto Phil as tears pour from his eyes. Phil watches in horror as one of Tommy's wing weakly flaps and the other doesn't move. Tommy can barely speak above a whisper as he begs to Phil.

_"Ph-Phil, I can't, I can't feel my wing. Why can't I feel my wing? Why won't it move?"_ Phil only pulls Tommy closer, hiding his face from seeing the mangled and bloody mess hanging dead from his back. He can't stop staring. 

Burnt feathers. Drying blood staining the floor. Stone-shaded eyes. His youngest son the verge of death. He can't keep doing this.

  
  


He doesn't move until Techno comes home. With Tommy passed out in his lap, he's terrified to move and let the teen see his nerve-dead and pinioned wings. He listens as Techno slowly walks up the stairs, a potion in his hand as he drinks from another. Phil nearly breaks down again as Techno slowly pulls out the frozen and dead ulna of Tommy's wing. It's useless to them in its state. Neither of them speaks as Phil pours the strengthened healing potion down Tommy's throat. Neither of them speak as Techno picks up Tommy and moves the limp teenager into his room, adjusting him to lay on his stomach. 

They only speak in whispers between each other, low enough so if Tommy woke up, he wouldn't hear them.

"His left's not going to let him fly, he's missing so much. His right... Dream did something to the nerve or something, it's just… Limp. He can't feel it. It's been too long for any health potions to stitch the nerves or muscles back together.

Did you…?" He doesn't need to finish the question as Techno gives a single, macabre nod, limply pinching his bloody clothes and pulling the cloth off his skin slightly. 

"There's not much left of his body, by now. I think I heard a wolfpack on the edge of the forest while I was comin' back." 

Phil gives a small hum. Dead silence echoes in the room. 

"Maybe I could- No… Well…" Techno pulls a face as he thinks. "I… I might be able to mechanize something for him, maybe fill in as his left wing. I… I'm not sure about his right. Maybe someone might be able to hand stitch the nerves together? I… I don't know…"

  
  


Poor, exhausted Phil can only nod in hope. Surely, surely someone knows to help the right wing. He trusts Techno to build something for the left. 

He's just desperate for his son, wistful thinking. 

They bound and wrap Tommy's wings when he wakes up. He can't feel them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, there's a small chance I might expand on this but for now, it's just a one-off :) Comments are always appreciated <3


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